each peach each peach i dare
to sweeten moments we share
from habit. it is nothing
spectacular, just the exhibiting sky in a cup
in a hand now open on the table, nothing
to regret, quietly close for closeness’ sake.
i know the stakes.
i would not look in your eyes for too long
i could be in love with almost anyone
kind, if i would let me
whatever the tea was meaning
to you, i was always leaving
in mornings, on workdays, at night
when ideas are brighter
and the tea you pinch in fingers
rolling tip to joint & green too, you
keep talking, describing, cutely faltering,
i hear myself listening
to tea gone cold
you drench the few plants left
or tea still warm in the pot
touching leaves out of your teeth
cupped hands again
cupping all the warmth i was allowed
to be honest. you make the tea this time,
like every time, steeping meaning,
with hands that remember parts of me,
your sweet kind hands i’m always leaving